


Hey

by orphan_account



Category: Metallica
Genre: Blood, Explicit Language, Feelings, Gay, Gay Sex, Gen, Homophobic Language, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Obsession, Pain, Painful Sex, United States, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 17:45:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: nor mom, nor dad, anyone taught him to love.





	Hey

The palms of his hands descended to the side of his rib cage, exerting force against the damaged zone; His broken ribs. By pressing the pain with his hands, instinctively, as if he could cure all the damage that was exerted on your body. And the sore gesture of his countenance denounces his broken will be, as a helpless young man being attacked by a run of thugs.

He could barely breathe, drowned in his own lungs, tormenteded in his own air, wielding his eyelids; Corroding the feeling he could distinguish since that man had entered the same room as his, as a vehemence of the future.

Wrathful to the breathing of the other, far from his languid be, about to dunk another blow against his face, like an animal demoniac who could not hunt their prey for long. Unclean is the thought against karma, embarrassing was that wince that came in his lips when a knee slammed into his genitals; knocking him to the ground, kneeling, praying for God, with the shadows created in between closed gray eyes that were on the verge of committing the gravest error. That aberration of begin to grieve and to scream through the corner of his eyes, wet by tears of humiliation. however, it did not happen, and it is not because it protected his pride, but what, on the contrary, was that impetuous claw which pierced his senses, on his hair, to throw, without care, towards the direction of his bestial feeling for was a witness of dingy facts. He spat at him, as if he were emetic what was in front of him, as if the arcades that came from his throat hammered his head, how if his head was in the air about to explode. His eyelids, which still impeded the passage of light and wickedness towards his sight, squeezeded even more when he felt those prominent digits embedded in his jaw and cheeks, embarrassing the pale skin of his that so unreal seemed. He touched his face, forcing to look at him, to raise his head, to fight his adversary.

He tried, oh, yes he did; He tried to remove those poisonous claws from his skin, advancing to his arms, clawing. But it was in vain, and always was, to fight against the will of the drunken man with clear hair and innocent eyes. lost the patience that had remained in the adult not to end his life, and was contained; That face, immaculate by the very gods, moved him. Enjoying his perfect work, the broken will against his hands, such Michelangelo would admire his magnanimous work. 

He spoke, infecting the nostrils with smell of cheap alcohol. "Don't defy me, Newkid," he said nothing, and he did not expect me to do so by burying those fingers against his jaw, to imbolize from any supplicating gesture. The nails of he were to the veins, trying to drown in the blood itself, triumphant, of its aggressor but received a kick in the stomach, jaded of the bland attitude of the taciturn boy. His eyes asked for supplication and weeping and such "newkid" was not rewarding him, did not give in taste; He never did, really.

Agonizing and dejected he fell against the ground, in front of his shoes, as he liked to feel the blond; better than the rest. He delighted with his work of art. Better than his songs, he thought. Still unsatisfied by the lad's soon I kicked him in the shoulder, slightly, to react.

"hey"


End file.
